


Cables and Argyle

by EnchantressEmily



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Meetings, Knitting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28228542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnchantressEmily/pseuds/EnchantressEmily
Summary: Crowley knows he isn't the usual sort of knitter, and he can't see himself fitting into a knitting group.  But the group that meets at the Shangri-La Yarn Shoppe is nothing like what he expects - especially the fussy, charming man in charge of it.(AKA: the knitting group AU no one asked for.)
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 136





	Cables and Argyle

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading a lot of Good Omens fic lately (mostly by [ineffablefool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool) and [Ghostinthehouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostinthehouse)); it made me want to write another one myself, but I wasn't coming up with any plot ideas... until this one suddenly appeared and took over my brain. I hope you enjoy it, whether you're a knitter or not!

Crowley hesitated for a moment, then pushed open the door of the Shangri-La Yarn Shoppe. The cheery little jingle of the bell over the door made him wince. Places like this really weren’t his scene, but there was only so much you could learn from YouTube videos.

It had taken him over two weeks after seeing the flyer in his favorite café (“Knitting Group, Fridays at 7pm. All ages, abilities, and styles welcome.”) to get up the nerve to actually investigate. He was well aware that a lanky middle-aged man in a black leather jacket, tight jeans, and sunglasses didn’t fit the usual image of a knitter, and despite the line on the flyer about “all ages, abilities, and styles”, he was fully prepared to defend himself to a bunch of little old ladies with outdated ideas about gender roles.

Therefore, it was something of a shock when his entrance into the yarn shop was greeted with a cry of “Ah, come in, dear boy! Welcome, welcome!”

Crowley blinked. Bustling toward him was a short, round man of about his own age, wearing khaki trousers and a jumper with an elaborate Fair Isle pattern. He had a halo of blond curls, and his beaming smile practically lit up the shop.

“We’re just about to begin, so you’re right on time,” he said, waving at a cluster of people seated on sofas at one side of the single large room. “That is, if you _are_ here for the knitting group…?” He trailed off, looking questioningly at Crowley.

Crowley’s brain was having trouble adjusting to a reception so different from what he had expected. He managed to find something resembling his voice. “Ngk. Uh. Yeah. Knitting, right. This your shop?”

“Oh, no, the shop is Tracy’s. I just run the knitting group.” The man nodded toward the counter in the middle of the room, where an older woman with bright orange hair smiled and wiggled her fingers at Crowley. “My name is Aziraphale, by the way.”

“Uh. Hi.” Crowley swallowed. “Just call me Crowley.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Crowley.” Aziraphale extended his hand. Crowley took it, aware in a distant corner of his mind that the feeling of Aziraphale’s soft, plump fingers wrapped around his long, bony ones was unexpectedly pleasant. “Come have a seat, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of our little group.”

The other members of the knitting group weren’t what Crowley had expected either. For a start, all of them were younger than he was: a couple in their twenties (who turned out to be named Anathema and Newt) and five teenagers (whom Aziraphale introduced without explanation as “the Them”). They all welcomed him cheerfully.

“Cool sunglasses,” said one of the teens – Adam, Crowley thought. “I’d like to have some like that.”

“I can tell you where I bought them,” Crowley said. “Give you fair warning, though, they won’t have quite the same effect with t-shirts and trainers.”

“And your mum’s not going to let you dress like him,” one of Adam’s friends – Pepper? – said, poking him in the ribs. “Not till you’re at least eighteen.”

Adam groaned theatrically and flung himself back against the sofa cushions.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “We’ll have plenty of time to chat later. What has everyone been working on since our last meeting?”

This, apparently, was part of the routine of the evening. Anathema displayed an intricate lace shawl that was two-thirds finished; Newt, rather sheepishly, held up a lopsided striped scarf. “I think I dropped some stitches again,” he said.

“I’ll help you fix them later, dear boy,” Aziraphale assured him.

The Them were knitting squares to be sewn together into a blanket. “When it’s done, we’re all going to take turns using it,” the boy on the end, Brian, explained. “I’ll have it one week, then Wensley the next week, then Pepper, then Warlock, then Adam. We’ve worked it all out.”

Finally everyone’s attention turned to Crowley. “Is this your first time knitting?” Aziraphale asked. “Or do you have a project that you’d like help with?”

Crowley coughed. “Uh – I’ve done some knitting. Mostly scarves and stuff. But I found this pattern…” He pulled up the website on his phone and held it out to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale settled a pair of reading glasses on his nose and peered at the screen, which showed a fitted jumper covered in serpentine cables. “I see. Would this be your first time knitting a jumper?”

Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then broke into another of those brilliant smiles. “Well, it may be a trifle ambitious for your first project of this size, but I always say that there’s no better way to advance your skills than by knitting something you love. Go speak to Tracy about yarn and needles, and then I’ll help you get started.”

In short order, Crowley was the possessor of a long circular needle, a short, curved needle that was apparently required for cables, and a number of skeins of rich red wool. Tracy had firmly steered him away from the black yarn. “Dark colors make it much harder to see your stitches, love,” she explained. “You don’t want that, not when you’re new to this and knitting all those cables.”

Once he had paid and Tracy had wound the yarn into balls for him, Crowley sauntered back to where the knitting group sat. The Them were sprawled on one sofa like a pile of puppies; Newt and Anathema sat together on another, and Aziraphale was perched next to Newt, patiently walking him through retrieving his dropped stitches. He glanced up and smiled at Crowley. “Do sit down, dear boy. I’ll be with you in just a tick.”

Crowley sat on the unoccupied third sofa, next to what was evidently Aziraphale’s knitting bag (an old-fashioned carpetbag in cream and blue tartan). He supposed he would have to get something to carry his knitting in. Maybe that fake-snakeskin messenger bag from the back of his closet; then he could at least pretend he was maintaining his look.

The sofa’s springs dipped as Aziraphale sat down beside him. “Now,” he said, smiling at Crowley again. “Let’s see what you have here.” He examined the yarn and needles and nodded approvingly. “These should do nicely for that pattern, but you’d best work a gauge swatch to make certain.”

Crowley groaned. “C’mon, where’s the fun in that? There’s no room for surprises when you know your exact gauge ahead of time.”

Aziraphale straightened his reading glasses to give Crowley what could only be described as a Look. “Well, if you enjoy the kind of surprises that result in a jumper with sleeves down to your knees, or one that will only fit a dachshund, then you’re welcome to cast on right now.”

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses, but capitulated.

He set about dutifully working a square of stockinette stitch, alleviating the boredom by watching and listening to the others. The Them chattered and bickered and laughed, turning out blanket squares with more enthusiasm than accuracy (except for Wensleydale, who looked to Crowley like the kind of person who actually enjoyed gauge swatches). Anathema was clearly the most experienced knitter in the group aside from Aziraphale; her fingers flew across the long rows of her shawl as she expounded on some theory she had been reading about, eyes gleaming. Newt spent more time watching her fondly than attending to his knitting, which might be how he managed to lose all the stitches off his needles twice in the space of fifteen minutes.

And then there was Aziraphale. He was everywhere at once – rescuing Newt’s scarf before it could unravel, breaking up an argument between Adam and Warlock about who got to use a certain ball of yarn, giving his opinion on some technical detail of Anathema’s shawl. When not assisting the others he sat down by Crowley to work on his own knitting, which was something large and complicated with a lot of bobbins of different-colored yarn. The other members of the group clearly liked and respected him, and Crowley…well, Crowley couldn’t help hoping for that smile to be turned on him again.

“How did you get interested in knitting?” Anathema asked Crowley at one point.

Crowley shrugged. “Broke my leg last year falling out of this apple tree I was pruning–” (A little gasp of “Oh my!” from Aziraphale, his hand fluttering to his mouth.) “–so I was stuck at home for weeks, bored out of my skull. Don’t remember why I started watching knitting videos online, but it turned out I liked it.” He looked at Aziraphale, who was sitting next to him again. “How’d you get started? You’ve obviously been doing this a lot longer than me.”

“Oh, my aunt taught me when I was quite young.” Aziraphale smiled reminiscently down at the needles in his plump hands. “I was never one for traditionally boyish activities; when my brother and his friends were out playing football, I was more than happy to stay indoors with my books and my knitting.”

“I’m a girl, and I like playing football,” Pepper objected. “Doesn’t have to be a boy thing.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale agreed. “And knitting needn’t be only for girls. Everyone ought to do the things that make them happy, regardless of what anyone else may think.”

Tracy came over to the seating area with a plate of biscuits in one hand and a mug in the other. “Tea’s up, loves,” she announced. “Your mugs are all on the shelf in back. You can use this one tonight,” she added, handing the mug she carried to Crowley. “If you keep coming, we’ll get you your own.”

Crowley found himself drafted into helping Newt and Wensleydale fill tea mugs from the electric kettle in the back room of the shop and carry them out to the group. There was a shelf above the kettle with a row of mugs in varying colors and styles; Crowley wasn’t sure which was whose, except for the white one with a handle shaped like a pair of wings. That one he could guess with no trouble at all.

“One angelic cup of tea, coming up,” he said, handing the winged mug to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale beamed up at him. “Thank you, my dear. I hope you didn’t forget your own tea?”

“Nope. Got it right here.” Crowley sprawled onto the sofa and took a sip from the mug Tracy had lent him (which had a cartoon of a knitting sheep on it).

He watched with a touch of amusement as Aziraphale bit into a biscuit, closing his eyes and giving a little hum of pleasure. Some of the others continued knitting in between consuming tea and biscuits, but Aziraphale drank his tea at a leisurely pace, fussily brushing the crumbs of his second biscuit off the rounded front of his jumper before picking up his knitting again.

“What’re you working on?” Crowley asked him, trying to put off returning to his own gauge swatch.

“A new sleeveless pullover for myself,” Aziraphale said, holding it up. “It’s coming along splendidly.”

Crowley didn’t have the experience to picture the finished garment from the wide tube of knitted fabric hanging from Aziraphale’s circular needle, but there seemed to be a band of patterning against a pale tan background, just starting to be recognizable as diamonds and intersecting lines….

Crowley shut his eyes and groaned. “Oh. Oh, hell, no. Don’t tell me you’re going to wear _argyle?_ ”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Aziraphale retorted. “It’s a fascinating challenge to knit, and I happen to find it quite attractive.”

“Okay, fair enough, but how often do you see someone wearing it on the street? That stuff’s straight out of the 1950s!”

Aziraphale sniffed and resumed knitting. “Nonsense. Some patterns are simply classic.” He didn’t look offended by Crowley’s jibes, though; the fine lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened as if he were trying not to smile.

By the end of the evening Crowley had finished his gauge swatch to Aziraphale’s satisfaction, but there wasn’t time to start the jumper. “Come back next week,” Aziraphale told him. “We’ll get you sorted out then. If you’d like to, of course…?” His voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty for the first time.

“’Course I’ll come,” Crowley said at once. “Got to have you teach me to read these bloody cable charts, don’t I?”

But it wasn’t just about getting help with his knitting, he admitted to himself as he drove home. He had enjoyed the evening a lot more than he had expected; being around people who shared his interest in knitting and didn’t consider him weird for it was a new experience, and one he’d like to have more of. Were all knitting groups like that, or was Aziraphale’s special?

Crowley grinned through the windscreen at the passing traffic. Aziraphale. Yeah, there was another reason to go back. He was so different from most of Crowley’s circle of acquaintance, but so thoroughly comfortable with who he was and what he liked – knitting, the simple pleasures of tea and biscuits, his ridiculous argyle. He seemed like a person worth getting to know.

The following Friday Crowley arrived at the Shangri-La Yarn Shoppe promptly at seven, his yarn and needles in the snakeskin bag slung over his shoulder. A customer picking out sock yarn eyed him nervously, but relaxed when Tracy greeted him with a wave and a cheery “Welcome back, love!”

The same group of knitters was assembled on the sofas. Aziraphale, seeing him, bounced to his feet with a broad smile. “Crowley, dear boy! I’m so glad you’ve returned. Do come sit down.”

There was an empty spot on Aziraphale’s left, and Crowley settled into it, stretching out his long legs. “Evening, everyone,” he said with a general nod. “How’s the scarf, Newt?”

“No dropped stitches this time,” Newt said proudly. “I, er, I may have added some extra ones, though.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow. “Again? I thought I sorted that out for you yesterday.”

“Well, I tried to do another row this morning before work….”

Crowley left them to it and turned to Aziraphale. “So, uh. I looked at the pattern for that jumper. The first part looks pretty simple – just a bunch of ribbing – but I don’t know what size I’m meant to be making.”

Aziraphale nodded. “That’s easy enough to find out. I’ll help you with it just as soon as everyone’s shown their projects.”

Once this was done (Anathema was within a few inches of finishing her shawl; the Them had added three and a half squares to their blanket; Aziraphale’s argyle pullover had the beginnings of armholes), Aziraphale produced a tape measure from the depths of his bag and made Crowley stand up to be measured.

“You may need to lengthen the body and sleeves beyond the measurements given in the pattern,” he remarked, holding the tape against Crowley’s right arm. “Especially as you’re liable to be knitting one of the smaller sizes for width.” He patted his ample belly. “I nearly always have the opposite problem – sweater patterns that fit around me need to be shortened by several inches.”

He was wearing a cardigan today, Crowley noted, in a sort of houndstooth check. It fit him perfectly, so it must have been another one he’d made himself. That was an advantage of knitting Crowley hadn’t considered: you could make things in your exact size instead of relying on what was available in the shops. He had worn enough store-bought jumpers that didn’t quite reach his wrists to be very pleased by that idea.

Having settled on a size (not the smallest, but the next size up), Crowley sat down to cast on stitches for the back of the jumper. He was pretty good at casting on by now, but he had never had to do this many stitches at once, and the effort of keeping count forced him to tune out the conversation for a while.

When he resurfaced, there seemed to be a three-cornered argument going on between Adam, Wensleydale, and Anathema about whether it was appropriate to quote an article about extraterrestrials in a science essay for school. Crowley blinked and looked at Aziraphale, whose eyes crinkled in amusement behind his reading glasses. “It’s an ongoing disagreement,” he murmured. “Best not to get involved.”

“Right.” Crowley listened to the argument for a moment, then shook his head. “Can’t say I expected to hear aliens talked about at a knitting group.”

“Oh, we cover quite a wide range of topics.” Aziraphale paused to slide some of his stitches onto a holder. “Last month, for instance, young Warlock and I had a long discussion about whether humanity is innately good or innately evil.”

Crowley looked incredulously at him, but he seemed to be completely serious.

Crowley’s jumper started with a band of ribbing around the bottom, so for the moment he could knit without needing to ask for help. He supposed he would be tired of looking at it by the time it was finished, but right now he was enjoying watching the stitches form under his fingers. The red wool was thick and warm, and the bamboo needles Tracy had sold him were less slippery than the metal ones he had bought online (if also less sleek and modern-looking). He could already imagine wearing the jumper around his flat in the winter – not that he had any chance of finishing it by _this_ winter, but maybe next year. He was always too cold that time of year; maybe something knitted with his own hands would actually keep him warm.

He also hoped it would come out looking at least mostly the way it did in the picture. Even if he didn’t yet know how to knit them, he loved the look of the narrow, sinuous cables twining around each other like vines.

Beside him Aziraphale cleared his throat, and when Crowley glanced over at him he was wearing a hopeful expression that did unexpected things to Crowley’s stomach. “Perhaps you might tell me more about yourself, dear boy,” he said. “If you’re to be a regular at these gatherings, I’d like to know you better.”

Crowley had to clear his own throat before replying. “Ngk. Yeah. Sure. What d’you want to know?”

Aziraphale considered. “Well, last week you mentioned that you were pruning an apple tree when you fell and broke your leg. Is the tree your own?”

Crowley relaxed; this was an easy subject to talk about. “Nah. I live in a second-floor flat – no room for anything bigger than a rubber plant. I do freelance landscaping. The tree belonged to this client with a huge fancy garden – plants from all over the world, some even I’d never heard of. Honestly, the worst thing about breaking my leg was that I couldn’t finish working on that garden.”

He stopped, slightly embarrassed to have let that last part slip out. “Uh. So. What do you do for a living?”

“I own a second-hand bookshop,” Aziraphale said, his eyes lighting. “It’s in a marvelous old building, and my collection is really extraordinary, if I do say so myself.”

“ _Collection_ is the right word for it,” Anathema put in dryly. “Ask him how often he actually sells anything.”

Aziraphale huffed. “I have some very rare first editions in there! You surely can’t expect me to let them go to people who won’t appreciate them properly.”

Crowley grinned. He could just see Aziraphale puttering happily among shelves of old books, handling them with the same care and precision that he used when knitting. A bookshop seemed like such a natural setting for him that it was hard to imagine him anywhere else.

When the tea was ready, Warlock and Brian (whose turn it apparently was this week) got up to fetch it, calling back, “C’mon, Mr. Crowley!”

“How’d I end up the designated tea carrier?” Crowley grumbled, but followed them to the back room.

Tracy had a different mug for him this week; it was black with a silver drawing of a snake that started by the handle and coiled all the way around the cup. “That one’s yours, love,” she said, patting his arm. “You just leave it on the shelf with the others, and it’ll be there whenever you come in.”

As Crowley carried his mug and Aziraphale’s out to the sofas, he quietly relished the feeling of belonging properly to this group.

“Here you go, angel,” he said, handing Aziraphale his tea.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and at the same moment Crowley heard what his mouth had just said. He was very glad that the sunglasses partly hid his expression. “Nuh – I – gh – the mug! ‘Cause your mug has angel wings on it, right? So it’s – you’re –”

Aziraphale took pity on him before he could get any more tangled up in his own tongue. “Quite so, my dear. And if I’m an angel, then you –” he indicated Crowley’s mug with a mischievous little smile, “– must be a serpent.”

“Ngh. Right,” Crowley muttered, collapsing onto the sofa. “Serpent. That’s me.”

After the tea break, the evening proceeded much as usual. Everyone got drawn into a discussion of how long Newt’s scarf should be (“It was meant to be like that one from _Doctor Who_ , but I don’t think I can keep it up that far. What’s a good length for a scarf?”). Anathema grumbled about triangular shawls whose rows got wider and wider the closer you came to the end (“Fifteen minutes to knit one row! For my next project I’m making some fingerless mitts.”). Pepper suddenly decided that the garter stitch squares of the blanket were boring and demanded that Aziraphale teach her a more interesting stitch pattern, drawing loud objections from the rest of the Them (“You can’t switch now, Pep, we’ve got half a blanket in garter stitch already!” “And why’re you the one who gets to decide, anyway?” “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first, Adam Young!”)

Crowley managed to defuse that argument by suggesting that the non-garter stitch squares could go around the outer edge of the blanket (“Sort of a, whatd’youcallit, a border,”), earning himself a grin from Pepper and a grateful look from Aziraphale.

At last it was time to go. The Them tumbled out the door to Warlock’s mother’s car, still bickering amiably about garter stitch and borders, and Newt and Anathema stood by the counter, talking quietly to Tracy.

Crowley stowed his knitting in its bag, glancing sideways at Aziraphale. Well, he couldn’t embarrass himself any worse than he already had with the “angel” comment; he might as well ask.

He cleared his throat. “So, uh, Aziraphale. I – I think I’m going to need help with these cables before next Friday. Any chance you could, um, give me a private lesson?”

Aziraphale paused in the middle of putting on his coat, which was a long Victorian-looking affair. “What precisely are you asking me, Crowley?” he said cautiously.

Crowley swallowed, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. “Meet me at a café or something, sometime this week? You can show me how to knit cables, and we can have coffee. Tea. Cocoa. Whatever you like.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s hand went to his mouth, but Crowley could still see his lips curving in a flustered, pleased smile. “Oh, yes, I should like that very much.”

Crowley felt the tension leave his body. “Good. Great. Me too.” He took out his phone. “Trade numbers so we can figure out a time and place?”

Once this was done, they moved toward the door together, Crowley adjusting his usual long-legged saunter to Aziraphale’s decorous pace.

Aziraphale paused just before leaving the shop and looked up at Crowley with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and brightened his whole round face. “You know, my dear serpent, I’m very glad that you joined this group,” he said. “You’re welcome to tempt me with cocoa any time you like.” He disappeared out the door with a little parting wave of his fingers before Crowley could think of a response.

Crowley stood staring after him for several moments, then turned to see Tracy, Anathema, and Newt all watching him with raised eyebrows. He resisted the urge to chuck a ball of yarn at them.

“All right, all right,” he muttered, unable to restrain the big, ridiculous grin on his face. “You’d think you never saw a serpent getting a date with an angel before.”

**Author's Note:**

> British knitters: if you spot any obvious US knitting terminology here, please let me know, and I'll fix it!


End file.
